“No, mine hasn’t come yet.”
“Better take mine.”
“You must have been having bad dreams,” said the other lightly. “What sleep I’ve had has banished the professor’s cretaceous jub-jub bird from my mental premises. Anyhow, I don’t think a revolver would be much use against it, do you?”
“Take it, anyway,” urged Colton.
“All right,” assented the reporter. “Much obliged. I’ll take it along if you want me to.”
The doctor handed out his long Colt’s. “Well, good luck!” he said again, and with a strange impulse he stretched out his hand.
Haynes seemed a little startled; but he said nothing, as he shook hands, except: “See you in a couple of hours, then.”
Although it was only six o’clock, Dick Colton could not get back to sleep. A sound of splashing water from Everard’s room showed that he too was up. Dick was dressing with those long pauses between each process which are the surest sign of profound thought in the masculine creature, when he heard a knock on Haynes’ door followed by the music of Helga Johnston’s voice.
“Petit Père. Oh, Petit Père!”
Before Dick could reach the door and explain, the low call came again: